All the Small Things
by raedbard
Summary: In the Summers' house, amid grief and loss, Giles and Tara share a moment.


Author: Raedbard  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Giles and Tara, not a pairing.  
Timeline: Season 5, in the aftermath of Buffy's sacrificial swan-dive.  
Summary: In the Summers' house, amid grief and loss, Giles and Tara share a moment.  
Word count: c.1200 words

ALL THE SMALL THINGS

The car he left behind. Giles didn't really see any need to go through the complications involved in shipping the thing to a new home in England, where it would hardly fit in. California was the proper place for red convertibles belonging to middle aged men, if there was a fitting place for such things. In Bath, he'd just end up getting his hair wet half the time - the place had been aptly named _Aquae _Sulis. So it stayed in the drive of the apartment, not rusting, since it never rained here, but merely standing still. His relic.

He didn't understand why the leaving had taken so long. He'd known it was to be done a year or more ago, but one death and one resurrection later he had still been there and it had taken a magical singsong to make him finally buy the plane ticket. Now, as he sat on the plane, unable to look out of the window for fear of accidentally meeting the eyes of the woman to his right, Giles stares straight ahead. He tries not to reminisce, since he thinks that impulse rather tacky at the best of times but surely, if he's ever to give in to temptation, now is the time.

He'd known that night, of course. He'd done his job, killed his slayer, and it was all over; the end he'd seen coming at the opening of the year had finally become truly inevitable. Sunnydale had finally released him. There was peace in that, and anger and shame to accompany it. But of course his guilt had been and would always be a multi-faceted thing, able to reveal new ways of grieving with every twist in the light.

He felt for the children though, and he would miss them. They'd all walked back to the Summers' house as morning came, greeting the remnants of the chaos that almost was. He had walked behind them all and watched, staring at the place where Buffy should have been. They were paired up, hand in hand. All silent and taken with grief, making their way by instinct. In those moments he had wanted to catch them all up in his embrace; hold onto them and feel their life against his body. But he couldn't make himself go to them, and loss, even one such as theirs, was a secret, private thing; not to be touched. He had walked on.

They came back at last, still silent but not wanting to separate yet. The children huddled on the sofa, Spike by the weapons chest, Giles himself by the fireplace. Somebody, he can't remember who, suggested coffee but it seemed no one could make their limbs move with sufficient grace for the job. So they had stayed in their places, watching the sun rise yet still burning the lights and the fire and their eyes with the tears. He had slipped away.

The kitchen was darker than the rest of the house, its blinds still drawn. There was still some washing up in the sink and crockery out on the counter. Their hurry to leave two nights ago had relieved Buffy of the burden of cleaning. He had smiled then, even felt like laughing, but knew it was shock pulling at him and let the impulse pass. Then, as he leant over the counter, staring through the blind's slats at the now bright daylight, he had heard someone enter the kitchen, soft footsteps. He turned, and saw the one of them he had least expected to see.

"Tara."

"Hey. I was just...I was thinking we should maybe eat something. The others, they're tired, I just thought, maybe...it would help."

"I'm afraid I'm not terribly hungry."

"No," she said, "Me neither." She gave him a small and apologetic smile, and he tried not to let it reach him.

"B-blood."

"I'm sorry?"

"There's blood...on your hand. Did you hurt yourself?"

"Ah...no. Just battle scars, you know."

"Oh, right. Of course."

"Thank you, though."

She nodded, gentle and quiet. "You going to clean it up?"

"I hadn't really though about it, actually."

"Can I...I m-mean, may I help?"

"Why are you offering help to _me_, Tara?"

"B-because you look like you need it...and because, maybe, no one else is going to offer."

"They've got their own pain, Tara. I can't ask, and I wouldn't want to."

"I know it's not m-my place, but...just your hand?" she said, looking up at him. He had looked at her, seen tired red eyes and unwashed hair and terrible sympathy in her. But her head was raised and these were perhaps the most words he'd ever heard her utter. So he had relented, sat down at the kitchen table, and held out his hand.

She ran the tap, fetched out a clean dishcloth and a small white bowl from the cupboards. Giles absorbed the details as though they were significant, as though by remembering he could make this day, and all the others to come after, make more sense. She sat beside him, not too close, and took his hand in her warm one, began wiping the blood away.

"This isn't your blood."

"Ah, no, it's not. It's Ben's."

"Oh, I see..."

"Xander was right really," he said, speaking almost to himself. "Acceptable losses and so on. And Watchers have always been experts in exploiting the rather blurred line between right and wrong in times of apocalypse. Like riding a bicycle."

Tara was silent, still sponging at the last of the blood on his palm.

"I'm sure you did what was right, w-what was needed."

"You were right too, Tara."

She looked at him quizzically, "What?"

"'Killer'," he shrugged. "You knew, when you were still, ah...affected by Glory's attentions."

"Oh, yeah. I don't really remember, except...you know, snatches. It's mostly just darkness, lot of darkness..."

"I'm sorry, I was...insensitive, in mentioning it."

"No, n-no. It's...I need to deal, I guess."

"You will, I'm sure, with Willow and the others around you."

"Yeah, we'll be okay. W-what about you?"

"Tara, I've committed..._ acts_ which perhaps no person should have to, because it's my duty. What I'm here for. I'll go on being what I am."

She spoke, quiet, but convinced, "Buffy thought she was a killer too. I think...if she did, she was wrong. And you are too, Giles. I just hope you know that."

"It's a little late to try to save me, Tara. Although again, I appreciate the effort."

She had smiled, nodded her head in that sweet shy way of hers. "Not save you, just let you live...I guess. I d-don't know...sorry, I'm not making any sense."

He had caught her hands up, covered them with his, now fresh and unstained. "I know the feeling," he said. Thank you." Then, releasing her and with a smile of his own, "Now go on, see how Willow and the others are. I'll be with you in a moment."

He had stayed sitting, thinking, for a time but not long. Soon after she had left he had gathered up what food was still close to fresh from the counter and the cupboards, piled them on a tray and taken it in to them. They had all managed a semblance of a smile when he entered, the only gratitude they had at that moment. He sat and saw them eat and start to talk, let go of each other's hands. He watched them begin again, and found his peace there.

Now, on the plane back to England, that peace was twisting in him, showing him Buffy's empty eyes and Willow's hands shivering with magics. He starts to wonder and worry, but stops himself. It's not his place to govern and guide anymore; he has to see about that life of his own that he so desperately needs. It's time to be alone without being lonely, be with himself. He lets his head turn to his right and smiles briefly at the woman sitting beside him as she looks up from her book in response to his movement. He looks through the tiny window, sees the sun coming up.


End file.
